


Beyond the Burning Skies

by Billywick



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: ;), I mean, M/M, Multi, but you should definitely read it, its been out for years, spoilers for the Abomination Vault i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 06:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10803942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Billywick/pseuds/Billywick
Summary: "My brother, War, stands falsely accused of unleashing Armageddon upon the human race. His fate concerns me. Yours, does not."War has always been his favourite. Throughout the ages, Death will follow wherever War and Ruin reign.[Follows the events of the Abomination Vault and the first Darksiders game with some very minor twists]





	1. Thunder Rider

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose this is my magnus opum when it comes to these two.

He had tried to force it down for long enough now.

The hands on his naked flesh, the scent lingering in the air, the faint light, the teasing little smirk that curled pale lips…

He had been quiet for quite some time, biting back any kind of sound that wanted to escape him. But as expertly as his brother wielded any kind of weapon, he knew how to touch him right to coax noises out of him no one else ever heard from him.

If he could have placed a bet on it, he would have bet this was repayment for being allowed to see his brother without his mask, a thing no one else got to see.

 

War moaned when his older brother’s sharp nails dug into his thighs as the pale nephilim continued to bite down his way over the younger’s abdomen.

He could have sworn he heard Death chuckle lowly, a very rare sound coming from him, but enough to make War raise his head and look down his own body. Only to find himself pinned to the bed a split second later, the older towering above him, staring at him for just one second before he crushed their lips together.

Further south, Death’s hand was busy for a moment, until he achieved what he had been working for. War’s eyes widened as his brother entered him, the sensation of pain caused by an act like that, caused by his own brother,  aroused him and he gave another moan, hands coming up to grip his brother’s hips and pull him in deeper as he wanted, needed, more of the feeling.

 

And then there was suddenly water in his face, cold water even, and War cracked his eyes open, eyes that were burning with anger a second later at whoever had dared to awake him from his not-so-innocent dreams.

 

“There, there. Good morning little brother. Are we having wet dreams, yes?”

Fury’s voice was teasing, of course she didn’t say good morning because she actually wished him one but because she wanted to mock him.

War growled. “What do you want?" he hissed, cursing his voice for sounding sleepy still.

 

“I was just worried because you were  _ moaning _ ," his sister continued with a grin.  

 

“Get. Out.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it? Surely you’d like to tell your big sister what kind of female you find attractive?”

 

“Out I said.”

 

“Angels or demons, War?”

 

“OUT!!”

 

And this time Fury really left because War looked ready to throw Chaoseater after her. When she slammed the door shut there was a slicing noise and a low  _ thump! _ and the tip of the sword’s blade appeared on her side of the door.

  
  
  


Needless to say War was in no good mood as he joined his siblings. Yes they were older than him, but still – he wasn’t a child anymore.

And those dreams? About his own brother?

Better forget about them and hide them away in the back of his mind.

Because War knew better than trying to forget about them. They would come back to haunt him sooner or later.

 

Ruin whickered softly as War approached his horse and the nephilim rubbed his head carefully.

They would ride to see the Council today, all of them, and the Watcher had told them already they had two tasks for them so it was likely the heads would split them up.

And if they split them up, they would put him together with Death. Which meant a journey with his brother. War wasn’t sure if he could keep his composure in his current state of raging need, so he almost hoped it wouldn’t turn out like that.

 

Death could not know about his desire, neither could anyone else.

 

Death had no mind to ask about War’s dreams or desires right now. There was something far more important tugging at his thoughts, the Charred Council’s information already disturbing him enough. But his brothers’ involvement in the whole business inspired ire in him.

 

This was not a matter that ought to involve Strife, Fury and especially not War. The youngest Horseman was just barely not a child anymore, though anyone who might have gazed upon the subject of his ire, they would be hard-pressed to find anything remotely childlike about the rider of Ruin.

 

“You need not make this journey. The Council will not be sending you. It is I that has business with their venture...you don’t need to come along.”

 

A last ditch effort to inspire his siblings to stay home. Probably a futile effort indeed.   
  
Indeed a futile effort, since Strife was already throning on horseback, giving a low “Tch” at their oldest brother’s remark while Fury mounted her own steed.   
“Don’t even waste your breath, Death," she said with a grin, “You are not convincing us otherwise. Though War would maybe like some time out to-...”    
“Shut your mouth, damn you!" came the youngest brother’s hiss and Ruin gave a warning snort to support his rider.   
  
“Would like some time to what?” That was Strife in a nonchalant tone and War was sure he wore a face-splitting grin behind that mask of his. True to his name, the second-oldest of them loved to cause discord and would jump on the bandwagon of whatever point his sister made. If it was to tease War, all the better.   
  
Fury snorted, “Our little brother is growing up, finally.” She sent War a side-glance, “Don’t let the Council see that expression on you or they might choose to interrogate you about your wet dreams instead of your accomplished missions...”   
  
War bristled and Ruin snapped after Fury’s leg, but the youngest horseman didn’t say anything. He just pulled his hood deeper into his face.

 

Strife was snickering loudly, his horse stamping its food in mirthful glee at War’s discomfort. Fury wore a triumphant expression and Death none at all. Well, he wore his mask as always, not even his siblings were privy to see his face. But usually, one could tell if Death smiled or sneered behind it.

 

This matter was truly trivial in the face of his recent discoveries and the impending mission. Of course, his brothers and sister could not know the gravity of it all. He much preferred them to live in a state of blessed ignorance, in a world where the fact War had discovered the secondary use of his penis was subject of conversation and not the possible extinction of Creation, and not at the hands of the apocalyptic riders. 

 

Death looked at War, a good long moment. His youngest and secretly, favoured brother looked irritated beyond belief by Fury’s jibes.

 

“Maybe the dreams were related to the accomplishing of said missions. The Council sent you to Heaven, did they not?”

 

At that, Fury and Strife only laughed harder.   
  
War’s lips twitched and his nose scrunched before he bared his teeth a little, apparently one second away from throwing himself at his siblings.   
  
Death didn’t even know what the dreams were related to and War was half-glad he thought it to be angels.   
  
“It was not. Related. To Angels.”   
  
Strife cackled, “You just admitted it!”    
  
“I did not!”   
  
“So it was demons then?" Fury continued. She thought a second about it, then her yellow eyes widened and she leaned over her horse’s neck, before whispering conspiratorially but loud enough for even Death who was farthest away from them to hear, “Was it Lilith? I heard the council doesn’t send you there anymore ever since you almost jumped her that one time when...”   
Fury was interrupted by Strife breaking out into a fit of laughter that sounded hollow and too spiteful.   
  
“That is a blatant lie!" War growled, blue eyes flashing under his cowl, then he looked at Strife, waiting for a moment, but when his brother didn’t stop laughing, the youngest drew Chaoseater, holding it point-first at Strife, “If you don’t cease laughing I will carve out your tongue.”

 

“ _ Enough _ .” Death snapped, patience short for his three siblings. Their bickering and fighting could only be tolerated for so long. Or rather, he usually distanced himself from them enough to easily ignore it. But with the three of them trailing behind Despair’s ghostly tail, the chance for a little peace and quiet was very slim. His mount gave a mix between a bellow and a whinny and shook his head in agreement with his rider.

 

“War’s private business is his own, Fury, Strife. Whatever pleased his palate is his to disclose and chase or not.”   
  
Had War been as childish and infantile as his siblings liked to say about him, he would have stuck out his tongue at them. He didn’t, though, instead just put on a superior smile, silently thanked his older brother and ignored Strife and Fury who looked deliberately annoyed.   
  
  
  
The Council’s task was clear. All four of them were supposed to go after a bunch of legendary weapons. And it had been their task to decide who would go and who would stay.   
  
Despair disappeared from sight as Fury still tended to her grumpy twin. Death had told all of them to stay, had even ordered them to, even Strife, the second oldest.   
  
“I’ll take my leave," War muttered, quiet enough for them to hear if they cared.   
Fury nodded as the youngest nephilim mounted his horse and Ruin carried him into a different direction. But only long enough to have disappeared from sight. Then, his loyal steed turned and War patted the mount’s neck as Ruin went faster - after his oldest brother.

 

Death certainly took no notice of what his siblings were up to, his mind whirling with thoughts of the current predicament. First, he sought out the Keeper, as a means of confession and the most useless of advice, then he made his way to Heaven. He had to seek out the biggest, oldest archive the angels had at their disposal.

 

The welcome was less than optimal, in fact, Death had to maneuver the angel-in-command and threaten him with war with the Council before he was allowed into Heaven’s gates.

 

Thankfully, Azrael sent an angel to greet him. A charming, clever, polite angel, who’d just shot down Despair and thrown Death over the side of the bridge.

 

Death landed on his feet, of course, but even his ancient body groaned at the impact and Harvester trembled in his grip for just a breath. The Nephilim whirled at the sound of fluttering wings, but his responses were too slow for this foe. 

 

With a dry cough and a suppressed scream of agony, he looked down at where the sword’s tip was clear of his flesh. Had he just been impaled by an angel? And why did it...He could see the corruption seep from the blade.   
  
Instead of following his brother though, War had gone straight for heaven and waited there for Death.    
Of course, he wasn’t a very welcomed guest in the realm of angels, especially not in their capital, the White City, so he kept away from busy streets and had long left Ruin’s back.   
  
Still, the angels didn’t look at him and kept their distance from him and the rider had to think about Fury’s stupid assumption. Why should he ever think of one of those arrogant creatures to be attractive to him?   
Surely, they looked, for the lack of a better word, angelic, but most of them were as bad as demons when it came to the mind behind all that beautiful facade.    
In fact, War much preferred a battle with demons than having to face some falsely-smiling angel all day.   
  
Why had he even followed his brother?   
On their way to the Council he had silently begged for not having to leave alone together with Death.   
Being alone with his eldest brother would only fuel his fantasies, probably far enough to make his nightly dreams return during daytime, getting him into most awkward situations.   
  
And yet here he was, waiting impatiently for Death’s arrival.   
  
Something to his left was causing a commotion, angels were huddling together and obviously peering down the small bridge they were on, down to another one.   
War, bored as he was, went to the railing as well and looked down, only to see his brother being pushed over the edge, the angel who had done it following him down with a triumphant expression.   
Pushing some angels aside, War, without another thought, jumped after them, landing at first on the bridge his brother had been on a second ago.   
When he looked down again, he saw his brother on the ground, and the angel who rammed a sword right through his chest.   
Usually, that wouldn’t really disable the oldest nephilim much, but he seemed to be unable to defend himself further and so, with a fearsome battle-cry, War jumped after them.

 

Normally, a sword through the chest would not have Death staggering and stalling, but this was no ordinary weapon. This was one of the Grand Abominations, the very weapons he helped create and now sought to vanquish forever. He didn’t have time to guess at how this angel came to have such a thing, he was in a perilous situation. Few weapons had the power to truly injure him and Affliction was one of such that could.

 

He wheeled around as the angel grunted a curse and leapt away from him, just as something massive blazed down from the sky. When the dust settled, it was clear enough whom had just arrived hollering to his rescue.

 

“ _ War _ ?”

  
The angel, obviously not in the mood to fight two horsemen, fled before War could even draw Chaoseater.    
“Coward," the youngest nephilim growled, then turned to offer his brother a hand to help him get up.   
“I thought you would appreciate some reinforcement. What I didn’t expect was to find you as a damsel in distress, brother.”   
His tone was soft though and he eyed the wound in Death’s chest with some worry.   
  
“Who was that? And what kind of weapon did he use?”   
  



	2. Majesty

  
He had been pacing around in front of that disgustingly alive-looking door, close enough to hear the sultry voice of the demon queen inside and that of his brother. War only caught fractions of their dialogue, and he didn’t really want to press his ear to the door. Not so much because he didn’t wish to eavesdrop, but because he didn’t want to get too close to that door.   
  
“Why don’t you ask your brother in, Death?" Lilith said with a sly grin curling her lips, “Are you afraid I might stir desires in him you could never?”   
  
War certainly had heard that. He stopped the pacing and stared at the door.   
  
“No? What a pity. Then I have to ask him in.”   
She raised her hand, much to the dismay of her demonic pets and snapped her fingers and War couldn’t even react fast enough before the door in front of him had enveloped him like a giant mouth and pressed him to the other side.    
  
War had never seen Lilith before, but he had to admit what people said about her was true. She looked as beautiful as she was disgusting and was as desirable as she was repellent. His brother looked absolutely displeased with War being in the room, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, both, demon and nephilim, were staring at him as if they waited for something.   
War frowned slightly and came closer, eyes more on his brother than on Lilith who leaned back in what was supposedly a seductive pose and had the demons at her feet howl with pleasure.   
  
War’s blatant ignorance didn’t seem to sit right with Lilith at all. She straightened, her hand coming down on one of the demons’ heads, squashing it.

 

Death had been more than displeased at Lilith’s attention to War. If he had the choice, he would have left his brother far beyond the Demon Queen’s ‘home’, preferably on the outskirts of Hell so he wouldn’t even breathe a fraction of her scent. 

 

Lilith was addiction given form, and lesser minds and beings than Death himself would succumb to her will in seconds, upon the first moments of laying eyes upon the mother of monsters.

 

And yet, there War stood. Not a dribbling fool, not a slave to Lilith’s wiles.

 

“Brother...come here.” he ordered, so he could examine this phenomenon more closely. Was War...completely oblivious to Lilith’s wicked charm?   
  
War obeyed, eyes wandering over the demons to Lilith’s feet before they returned to his brother.   
As they stood side by side, Lilith observed them closely.   
After the Demon Queen had finally overcome her initial shock at having her seduction skills failing her so completely with War, she began to search for reasons.   
  
She had been aiming on toying a little with War, only to show his older brother that even if he had made a good point why she should help him, there were things he held no control over and no good argument against.   
  
But there the two nephilim were, both unaffected by her charm. In face of the ignorant War, even Death was more drawn towards her...   
  
How could that be?   
  
Her yellow eyes wandered up War’s stature and landed on his face and stuck there for a second. War was still looking at his brother, the two of them fighting a silent battle of stares since they could not speak in front of her, that was clear.   
  
And then she let out a bellowing laugh and her face twisted into a horrifying expression of what was supposedly amusement.   
  
“Can it be?”   
She got up from her throne, wandering over, breasts bouncing in a gravity-defying way that had the demons moan more at the sight.   
When she reached War who was taller than her, the Demon Queen’s hand came to touch his cheek and she guided him to bend down a little to whisper into his ear, loud enough for Death to hear.   
  
“Why did you never tell your beloved oldest brother you desire him?”

 

It was a good thing Death’s expression was hidden behind his mask, because he might have grown slack-jawed at Lilith’s words. There were only two kinds of people who could resist the Demon Queen in such ways. One, a Firstborn Nephilim such as Death who had spent enough time around the wicked female to establish a sort of immunity to her. And two, those who were taken by the force of love and desired someone so much, they grew ignorant of Lilith’s power.

 

Death knew War was no Firstborn, but the latter option seemed as absurd as the former.

 

But it would do no good to their cause to show a divided front to the demoness now.

 

“War’s desires are his own, Lilith. When did you become so rude to not let a boy’s mind run rampant in his dreams once in a while without mentioning it?”   
  
The Demon Queen let go off War’s face slowly, but she didn’t detach herself from him, instead she pressed her curvy body against the nephilim’s side, one hand on his broad chest, as if she was presenting him to Death.   
  
“So you approve of it?” Lilith’s smirk widened, “This is becoming far more interesting with the second.”   
  
War was unable to speak, unable to look at his brother or even move. This was humiliating in ways he could not have anticipated before.   
“Those dreams you have, War," Lilith began, hand on his chest stroking him carefully as if he was one of her pets, “Do you regret waking up from them? How do you endure facing reality when your dreams show you so many more facets of your brother’s love for you?”   
  
War felt his face burn with shame. Death should have never learned about it and yet he felt his brother’s scorching gaze.

 

Death would never admit that he too wanted to hear the answer to those questions, in some way almost as badly as he wanted to cut Lilith’s hands off for touching his little brother. 

 

This was not the worst that could happen in the confines of Lilith’s domain, not by a long shot. The Queen’s interest in War’s personal fantasies, which Death was not privy to, but apparently starred in, kindly diverted her attention from her dismay at Death’s proposal for information. 

Death’s gaze lingered on War’s bright eyes, saw the shame and humiliation and stepped forward. Harvester nudged Lililth’s hands away from War’s chest and the eldest Horseman gathered his youngest brother to his side once more.

 

“Your curiousity will get you killed one day, Lilith.”   
  
She laughed once again. “One day maybe, not today...” The Demon Queen waved her hand. “Do you wish to take your leave or might you be interested in staying the night? Sadly, I can only offer you one room to share, one bed, I think that---”   
  
“We will leave now, brother," War suddenly brought out from between clenched teeth. His face was coloured almost as deeply red as his cowl and he still didn’t manage to look his brother in the eye.   
  
Lilith laughed some more, especially when the two horsemen marched out of the hall.   
  
“I don’t think the Council will approve of it should you choose to follow your desires.”   
  
-x-   
  
Silence had reigned over them for the past hours. Burnt land lay before them, behind them and there was no one in sight.   
Yet, War didn’t open his mouth.   
He suspected his brother wanted a statement on what had happened earlier, but he couldn’t bring himself to one.   
  
Heat shot through him and straight into his groin as he failed to suppress the memory of the pictures that came to him almost every night by now.

 

Death did his name proud and kept silent as a grave, mind rather pondering the Abomination Vault and its content. Or at least, trying to. Lilith’s questions to War would not leave his thoughts. Nor could he keep from glancing at his little brother, wondering what went on behind that less than angelic face. Did War really dream of him? Or was it just another ruse the demon queen wanted to get on his nerves with, as vengeance for the way he played her?

 

It was seldom and rare that Death chose to end a silence rather than keep it.

 

“Is it true?” he called to his brother, not glancing over and Dust perched on his shoulder, keeping what little War could have seen of the elder’s face well and truly hidden.   
  
War had not anticipated his brother would break the silence, but when he did, the younger nephilim felt stripped of armour and sword, naked in front of his brother and not in a comfortable or arousing way.   
More likely in a way that urged him to flee from the situation.   
  
What could one do but answer a question like that?   
  
He was a terrible liar, and even if he was a good one, Death would see straight through him.   
  
“Yes," he muttered under his breath but knew very well the older had heard him. What was he supposed to say more?   
Apologize? Explain himself? He could neither, for it was neither his fault nor had he planned it.   
After a long pause, he brought himself to say, “I do not know what to add nor do I know how she could know it, but she spoke the truth. I... do... dream of you.”

 

It wasn’t the kind of sobering truth that would have Death’s entire world change or tip on its head, but it did carry a little blunt force. It was not a matter than concerned the riders, at least, not the eldest, ever. He was millenia old, had lived through every whim of the living countless times...such thoughts had not been in his head for hundreds of thousands of years.

 

And yet he could stifle the small smile behind his mask as he remembered how it felt to be War’s age. To still feel carnal desire so strongly. As for War’s subject choice....well, it was difficult among four siblings, especially as the youngest. Perhaps War chose him because he was so much older, or perhaps because he spent the smallest amount of time with his brothers and sister.

 

Never did it occur to Death that War may just love him a little harder as a brother than Strife.

 

“Do I satisfy your dreams, War?” he couldn’t help himself, the opportunity to tease War presented itself perfectly to him.    
  
War felt himself facing two problems, one, his internal walls that kept the pictures away were crumbling and the memories and sensation from his dreams were flooding into his conscientious mind without limitation and two, his brother was  _ teasing _ him about it.   
  
“Do not tease me about it!" the younger answered angrily, his face burning again as he turned his head away, then stared at Ruin’s mane.   
Silence reigned for a while, then War murmured, “You do. Every time.”   
He shuddered as his brother’s question and his own answer brought him a full little scene out of his dreams right to the front of his inner eye.   
  
He could bet Death’s hands were as cold as always, but on his skin, trailing down his sides, they were hot like hellfire. The moan he coaxed from his younger brother as he dug his thumb into the skin right next to War’s hipbone made Death smile against the other nephilim’s neck, War could feel it and it only fueled his rampant desire...   
  
War felt uncomfortable on Ruin’s back by now. Not that he did not have himself under control, but this was escalating soon enough. Maybe it helped if he changed his tactic and offered a more open course.   
“Does the idea not repel you? Do you not think me to be sick?”

 

Despair plodded on next to Ruin, calm and distant to his rider’s thoughts. Death took his time before answering, lifting a hand to offer Dust a scratch of his head in response to which the crow gave a squawk.

 

And Death considered War’s words. Did he feel anything towards the notion of sharing fleshly pleasures with his brother? Oddly enough, he did. A vague sense of amusement and intrigue. But nothing of disgust or even dismay. 

 

Would it be wise to tell War of such things? Would it fuel the strange desires in the youngest Horseman’s whims? He could not fathom the state of mind War was in when faced with his shameful secret.

 

“You are not sick. Bloodthirsty, stubborn, sometimes nothing short of stupid, but not sick. I have not felt such carnal desires in a very, very long time brother. Your dreams are not of your will. But I have to wonder, what would you say if I was to show response to your unsavoury desire?”   
  
His brother’s reply did nothing to calm him down. Much the opposite, the question hit him like a punch to the face and for a second, War could do nothing but gape at his oldest brother.   
  
_ Response. _ The word alone let his fantasy run wild with ideas of how exactly this kind of response would look and most of all feel like.   
“I...," he began, “highly fathom I would not talk that much in that case.”   
It was meant to sound a little bit sarcastic to show he knew Death was merely teasing, but it sounded too honest for War’s own taste because, even he had to face it, sarcasm or not, it was the truth.   
  


Out of all the quips War could have given him in return, Death did not expect blunt honesty infused with such hope. Oh. War really did want to know what it was like to share Death’s bed, didn’t he?

 

The eldest Horseman chuckled, not out of mockery, but out of pure surprise. This was an interesting diversion at best, but he could not deny that War was his favourite, and this new proposition of the finer points of their relationship intrigued him enough to give it serious consideration. There were few things in Creation Death would not do for War. And letting him share a lover’s touch was not one of them. Perhaps the youngest would prove himself worthy of such a reward. Not that Death was a particularly accomplished lover, but if War held such desire for him, it should not go unwarranted.

 

“I suspect you would do little more than groan your pleasure, brother,” there was a purr in Death’s voice, but it promised nothing. 

  
“Perhaps you will get an ample opportunity one day. Until then, try not to tell any more demons or your sister about your dreams.”   
  



	3. Straight to the Heart

War could not deny that his first night after his brother’s blatant answer that made him let go of all of his inner restraints that denied him hope, he had dreams that felt more real than ever before. He awoke panting and was quite sure he had been rather vocal about the content of his dreams.   
Good thing his brother who rested only a few meters away still looked as if he was meditating or whatever he did.   
  
Days passed and War gave up his hopes for a soon ‘ample opportunity’. they had never once spoken about it again though War was certain his brother had at least once witnessed his, well, new sleeping performance.

 

Death certainly never slept. He did slip into somewhat of a resting state, but he was always conscious enough to witness his brother’s dreams. And they were vocal, if nothing else. It was uncomfortable at first, seeing War throw himself around on his bed, moaning, body undulating as if he was truly in the throes of ecstasy and it did not help to know they were his imaginary touches that brought such pleasure to the youngest Horseman.

 

And after a while, Death began watching with interest. The way War’s face softened, as if in his dreams, the two of them exchanged a feeling foreign to the real Death, emotions that took the edge from War’s hard face and painted him a younger being. Or the way his body moved to cushion another, fingers twitching by War’s side to run over flesh that could not flush or pale for lack of blood. 

 

Or the way War took to whispering his name. Never had the eldest Horseman heard someone utter the word ‘Death’ with such hidden marvel.

 

Perhaps his brother’s condition was far more critical than he thought. And considering the gargantuan task that lay ahead of both of them, perhaps it would be better to resolve this matter before throwing them into battle.

 

So, it was during one of War’s dreams or nightmares, however he wished to call his fantastic romps, that Death left his own resting place and came closer, running long fingers over the exposed chest of his youngest sibling. The skin shivered beneath his cold touch, but in an eager matter. Death’s finger continued, ran over muscles forged by centuries of battle, then a neck to make a bull envious only to arrive at War’s jaw. His brother was far sterner, more austere than any angel, but his beauty was of a fierce nature that only looked all the more intriguing than even the most delightful of angels.

  
The touch ripped him out of his sleep, but not out of his dream. War clung to it with all of his might, clung to the image of his brother’s fingers on him, so cold but still leaving fire in their wake wherever they touched his skin.   
  
“Brother..." he whispered, eyes still closed, forcing himself to continue dreaming.    
  
Some voice inside of his head urged him to wake up, to leave the dream in which Death had left his resting place and was leaning over him now, fingers running over him in a way that made his body hum with pleasure.   
But not yet, the fantasy was too real this time and he could not miss out the opportunity to experience another step towards reality.   
  
The fingers on him wandered in weird ways, he noticed after a while though. Not like his usual dreams, where Death knew all too well where this was going and came up with a rather quick pace in every type of exchange they had.   
This time though, he was slow, careful even. As if he had never done this before.   
As if it was the first time for his brother to touch him that way.   
As if Death had really chosen to leave his place and come over.   
War cracked his eyes open only to be faced with his brother who was indeed leaning over him, face so close War’s nose almost touched the ivory surface of his brother’s mask.   
And his fingers were on him, resting long enough in one place to feel them singe his skin with all their impossible heat and before he could keep himself from it, he moaned his brother’s name, all desperate and longing.

 

Perhaps the moment he’d teased War about should be indulged right now. War was hot beneath his fingers, aching for him in ways Death had never previously considered. Where was the harm in letting his brother indulge in this whim of his? The eldest Horseman found no reason to object and his touch continued. Where his finger lingered on the broad chest, War’s skin shuddered. Moreso as they trailed downwards, played at his exposed hipbone (Death never understood his brother’s inclination to sleep sans clothes) and found trembling flesh awaiting his arrival beneath.

 

And still, he did not speak, would not confirm to War that this was no longer a dream, but vivid reality.

 

The mask blocked his expression, but the blazing orange of his eyes was subdued, fascinated with how War writhed beneath his cold touch. No creature in their right mind desired Death, but War never had been so right in the head.   
  
The younger nephilim’s fingers curled into the blanket he was sleeping on, almost tearing the fabric apart as he gripped it tightly enough to make his knuckles nothing but white. He tried to keep silent, to not make his brother stop ever what he was doing to him. But as soon as long, cold fingers curled around the part of War’s body that needed his brother’s attention the most, the younger moaned again and opened his eyes to stare at Death, eyes glowing dimly as they were heavily clouded with lust coursing through the Horseman’s body.   
Death gave him no sign that this was or wasn’t real, but the faster his brother’s strokes got, the less War did care.    
  
But having his brother satisfy him was only one part of his desire, while the other was different and certainly less passive.   
War’s arm came up to wrap around the older’s neck and pull him closer, so close until his lips finally made contact with Death’s pale skin, planting what should be a kiss and was more of a bite to his neck before he pulled him down onto him and rolled around with him. As if that wasn’t already daring too much, War pinned his older brother down. His lips caught Death’s collarbone where he nibbled without much care, just how his brother had loved it in his dreams while his hands pressed the older’s hips up and against his own which elicited another moan from him.

 

Daring indeed. Death almost chuckled as War whirled them around, throned on him as if this was the epitome of victory itself. Why the Horseman allowed his brother the pleasure of feeling his cold body beneath his own, he did not know. And neither was he inclined to dismiss War’s affections.

 

And War’s hands on his hips...He was beginning to awaken a part of Death that had long since forgotten how to enjoy itself or all the comforts of living. There was a hard, hot length pressing against his, his brother’s animalistic desire manifest in his tight grip and insistent kiss-biting. Death endured, indulged for now, riding the hard motions War was beginning to make for just a moment longer.

 

“How very desperate for me you are, little brother,” he whispered past an impassive mask.

  
“How very perceptive of you to only notice now,” War’s voice was rough and deeper than usual and he definitely,  _ definitely _ , was desperate the way his hands tried to grab every part of his brother at once and at the same time fumbled with what clothing remained on the older nephilim.   
  
Instead of speaking, War put his tongue to better use and continued to pull on his brother’s pants as it slid down the older’s bare chest and over his stomach where he resumed the nibbling and biting.   
  
Finally, the younger’s hands had succeeded at working open Death’s clothing and while one was curling around the older’s dick, the other held onto the older’s pale hip. War’s bright eyes met his brother’s as he looked up and let his lips wrap around the flesh growing hard and hot in his hand.

 

It was a sensation that had Death contemplate the wisdom of this little endeavour. War was so eagerly touching him with no restraint or respect keeping him from what he clearly wanted. Should his fulfillment end here? Should Death push the younger from him and lecture him with Harvester’s edge on the propriety that should exist between them?

 

And then again, the tingles his body slowly filled with were so old, entire lifetimes spanned the moment at which Death felt like this last. Civilizations had risen and fallen since Death last let someone touch him this way.

 

“You grow bold, War. But your mouth has never been put to better use.”   
  
War seemed to be unhappy with his own work since his brother was still able to talk as if nothing at all was happening to him.    
He silently promised himself he would only be satisfied when Death at least once showed some vocal reaction to the treatment he was receiving.   
Instead of answering, War took him in deeper, sucking a bit harder, relying completely on what dream-Death had enjoyed.   
His eyes never left his brother’s, at least not for the first while until he doubled his efforts and began moving his head lightly, one hand still wrapped around him, squeezing slightly.   
  
The mere fact that Death was allowing this sent tingles through his whole body and it made his own arousal twitch in excitement.

War moaned low in his throat, if this went on for longer, he would find release without touch and that would be humiliating.

 

Death was still wondering just why he was allowing all of this, but found no other reason in mind other than he could. And it would settle War down for the remainder of very important mission.

 

The eldest Horseman would not give his youngest brother the satisfaction of any noises leaving his mouth, which War was probably mourning right now. The wet heat of his brother’s mouth left Death with a very pleasant feeling and if he wasn’t holding War’s gaze, he would have closed his eyes and enjoyed the sweet, offered bliss. As it were, he only watched War’s efforts with the unwavering stare kept safe by a mask.

 

“Your vigor is admirable.”   
  
War lifted his head, releasing his brother’s length with an almost obscene noise, eyes narrowing. It had been easier in his dreams, that was true.    
“I will show you something to admire," he answered before resuming his work, this time he took Death’s impressive length in completely.   
When he lifted his head again he made sure his teeth were scraping slowly along his brother’s arousal.   
To his amusement, Death’s leg under his hand trembled for a moment.   
  
His gaze wandered up again only to find his brother’s eyes closed and he was obviously enjoying himself.   
The picture Death offered him was enough to send so much heat into the younger’s crotch he had to make use of his one hand on himself.

 

Death deemed War worthy of another glance and found his little brother desperately jerking himself as if he just couldn’t handle the sight of his big brother bared before him.

 

“Now now, War, what are you doing?” His hand found his brother’s arm and he tugged, once and hard enough to dislodge the Horseman’s grip, “I didn’t say you could do that.”

 

War gave a noise that sounded desperate enough to warrant he had been one second away from actually finding his release.   
He was panting now, muscular chest heaving with every inhale he took.    
“Brother...”   
It was supposed to be the beginning of a coherent sentence but it came out so pleading that War shut up after it, pink dusting his cheeks.   
  
“What would you have me do instead?" he brought out.

 

“What shall I have you do?” Death gave a mirthful little chuckle. It was obvious he was still very much in control of himself. He ran a hand through War’s silver hair, marvelling at how flawless it was compared to the rest of his brother’s scarred body.

 

“You are so eager to be one with me, little brother. I will let you have tonight to fulfil your wishes.” Because Death damn well knew this mission might end with one or both of them no more.   
  
War took it as an invitation and pinned down his brother once more, this time he freed him of his last clothing completely and pressed their naked bodies together which made him moan once again.    
But since Death had so openly invited him which really was much more than he had anticipated, War pressed his brother’s hips down with one hand as he used the other to position himself. Not even in his most daring dreams had he envisioned this, but his brother wanted this, didn’t he?   
  
He forced himself to calm down the storm that was raging in his chest and lower regions and then pushed forward to enter his brother with one hard thrust, uniting their bodies so very physically and much more real than his dreams could ever be.   
  
War’s hands to each side of Death’s head grabbed the ground so hard the stone actually cracked, so much was he holding onto himself to not mindlessly lose himself instantly.

 

It wasn’t quite what Death anticipated either, rather having thought War would want to be the recipient, but then again, his brother’s eager position between his pale legs should have given him the vital clue. Death only permitted himself a grunt as War pushed his impressive girth in as far as he could.

 

Had he ever slept with anyone in this manner? He couldn’t remember. There was pain, of course, but compared to what the Horsemen dealt with on regular basis, it paled to a shadow he could bear.

 

A hand clutched at War’s shoulder, fingers digging into bulging muscle as Death adjusted himself to the massive length intruding his body.

 

“Easy, War,” he soothed, feeling the stone crack beneath his back. His mask still hid his expression and hard breath.   
  
Had he been not so extremely concentrating on keeping his composure, War would have complained about Death treating him like a little child.   
But then again, had he thought about this before, he would have figured his older brother would only permit him to be on top, but never really in control.   
War grunted as a response and leaned forward to bury his head in his brother’s neck before he pulled back and began to make his first experimental thrusts.   
  
Never had he done this before and War knew he was behaving like a virgin in the way he always walked on the brink of losing himself to frantic thrusts.   
  
It didn’t really take all that long. Soon enough, something more primal in the youngest Horseman took over, something that set his eyes ablaze and was usually seen only in the hottest of battles and it had him drive himself into his brother with the raw force of a sledgehammer, one hand on Death’s shoulder, the other supporting his weight on the stone beneath them.   
  
That didn’t take long though. Only five minutes (!) later, War lost himself completely, groaned something incoherent and clung to his brother while he found release as if there was no tomorrow. 

 

Death endured the storm of thrusts that War unleashed upon him with relative grace, giving only small grunts when the angle pleased his body in unknown ways. He could feel his little brother’s desperation and need.

 

That’s all this was. War had hit a phase in his long life that required such primal satisfaction and Death was allowing him to live it out, just this once, on the eve of their great endeavour. Hopefully, the youngest Horseman would be able to stop thinking of his dreams and focus on the task. Death was a good sport, moving his hips, pushing against the unrelenting force driving deep into him now and then, but largely just riding out the immense pressure his brother moved with.

 

When War found his sudden release, Death bit back a chuckle. His own body was tingling, surging with slow, lazy pleasure that would have kept this up for hours rather than minutes, and the ancient memory of an orgasm was not even on the horizon for the eldest.

 

War was spent though, slumping over him, his nose pressed to Death’s grey flesh as he panted for control over himself. It was almost...adorable.

  
“Is that better?” he petted sweaty silver hair, a smug grin behind his mask.   
  
War gave a groan. “Yes," he brought out, his body still tingling from the aftermath of his orgasm, “Much better.”   
  



	4. Bringer of Pain

The group of enemies they collided with the next day had bad luck - apparently encountering War in a mood as good as it was today meant utter annihilation for everyone in his way. Even Death would have to marvel at the sight his brother was today.   
  
Content with himself, War slung Chaoseater onto his back, the blade still dripping with fresh blood as the youngest Horseman returned to his brother’s side.   
  
“I told you I could defeat them alone.”

 

Death, not usually one to hang back and let his brother do the hard work, certainly took the leisurely route today. Still mounted on Despair with Dust on his shoulder, he’d watched War slaughter the contingent of demonic mercenaries with an ease unusual even for him. His little treatment last night certainly had lifted the youngest Horseman into a seat of power beyond his years.

 

“I never doubted your strength, War, just your motivation.”

 

They still had a long way to go on finding Belisatra and Hadrimon, the fallen angel, but with the way War carved their path through flesh and bone, their bloody road was clearer for the time being.

 

-x-   
  
“I’m not  leaving you behind!”   
War’s expression was stern and he frowned deeply, even crossing his arms. “Even  _ you _ can get exhausted and you are exhausted right now, so no. I’m not leaving.”   
  
Leaving his brother behind meant leaving him to die. It meant never seeing him again, it meant never being together with him again. It meant War could never tell him what he yearned to tell but could never voice. Not now.   
  
“Brother, please...” He wasn’t usually one for begging. And he knew this was childish because deep down, he knew it was their only chance. The only chance they got. 

 

A deep sigh emanated from Death’s chest, but he shook his head, denying War is desperate plea. This plan had to work, the double feign was their only chance at getting their enemies into the position they were vulnerable in. The position Death would need in order to shut them down and eliminate their chances at activating any more of the Grand Abominations.

 

It was a solid plan, with just one terrible flaw. And that was the risk he had to expose his brother to. It wrenched at his black, rotted soul to have War march towards his most certain death at the maws of Black Mercy, but for the sake of Creation itself, Death could not allow the Ravaiim blood to fall into the hands of those that sought access to the Vault.

 

“War,” he laid a hand upon his brother’s shoulder and thanked his mask for hiding his pained expression. His brother was a soldier he wished he never had to sacrifice, and yet he was doing exactly that.

 

“That’s precisely the point. I am exhausted. I cannot ride hard and make it to the Charred Council. I am counting on you for the most important part of this plan.”   
  
For just one moment, War’s expression faltered and you could definitely see the heartbreak he was going through. Then he regained his composure.   
He gripped Death’s hand on his shoulder and squeezed it softly. “I’ll... I’ll do whatever it takes to find your soul and bring it back. I’d rather die than never seeing you again.”   
  
With that, he turned around, swung himself on Ruin’s strong back and left without another glance back.   
  
-x-   
  
The fight had been hard enough. Around him, angels were dying, their bloody feathers raining down from the sky, a almost cynically symbol of peace. But not here, not in this battle and not with that goddamn angel wielding Black Mercy.   
  
War had seen him fire the gun three times until now and every time an angel had died a cruel death.   
He had to protect the Ravaiim blood at any cost, he had promised it to his probably now dead brother and he wouldn’t even allow himself to die rather than losing it.   
  
When Hadrimon was occupied with fighting off another angel, War saw his chance and threw himself at the fallen angel, lifting Chaoseater high over his head to end this with just one strike.   
And then Hadrimon turned around, the angels falling dead to the ground behind him, and aimed the gun at him.   
  
Pain exploded in his chest and intensified only as he landed on his back in the dirt. Ruin was there in a second, the horse sensed his rider’s agony and seemed to grow more powerful with the second, mane aflame and eyes ablaze as the steed stopped even Hadrimon from coming to close.   
Which was not necessary anyway, they had already taken the blood from him. War tried to get up but he couldn’t, it felt as he was being eaten alive.   
Chaoseater was close to him, laying in the dirt like its wielder, useless like him. War groaned as he tried to turn, tried to stretch out his hand far enough to reach the sword. Even Ruin pushed him closer, but it was too late.   
The horse tried to push him closer, but War’s hand wasn’t reaching out anymore. Ruin, now the last being alive on the horrifying battlefield covered in corpses, raised his head and gave a bone-shattering, grief-stricken neigh.

 

-x-

 

It was done. The blood of the Ravaiim was gone, lost to oblivion and forever safe in destruction. No more harm would come from the murdered race of Old Ones, fallen to the rapid greed of the Nephilim. Another sin and burden to be born by Death’s shoulders. But it was not that burden that had him race through the realms, away from the Council’s screeching demands and angered disposition. 

 

It was not the burden that crushed Death’s heart into a small sea of black shards.

 

War.

 

He’d sent his brother to certain death and that was something he could no longer stand with a straight back. Despair raced over the battlefield, broken bodies of fallen angels littering his path and easily crushed beneath his ghostly hooves.

 

And yet the carnage didn’t phase the rider, didn’t satisfy his crying need. 

 

Until Despair gave one of his moaning whinnies and flicked his ears forward for an answer that would have broken even a mountain’s heart. Ruin. That was Ruin.

 

Despair only slowed once the black horse of War was before them, a lonely sentinel over a fallen form of crimson and steel and soot. Death felt his insides tug in a manner that was close to nausea. 

 

War.

 

He slid from the saddle, settled Harvester against Despair’s side and gave the snorting Ruin a pleading look to let him pass. The horse did so, reluctantly, nose pushing at the unmoving form of War on the ground pathetically.

 

The youngest Horseman was dead.

 

Death went to his knees, stroking over the form with a shaking hand. He’d killed many of his brothers, bore the name Kinslayer for reasons truer than life and death itself, but this...he could not abide by. He’d done this.

 

There was no flicker of life in his beloved little brother and Death, had he any tears, would have shed them for War. Yet his eyes remained a burning, unimpeded orange. What was he to do other than take War’s body, bury him proper and forever live with this guilt...it seemed the only option.

 

“War...my brother,” a stroke over that stern yet handsome face, “I am sorry...so sorry.”

 

There was a flicker...just the end, the wisping tail of life on his peripheral and Death seized it, only to find Chaoseater in his hand. Of course. He gave a breathy laugh, thanking his brother’s very nature for the soul-bond with his sword.

 

It was a quick, harsh ritual. First, he found his brother’s soul, a strong, defiant force, and the last spark of life within Chaoseater, held them tightly in his call. To pull them together into this body once more required sacrifice and Death had only one option. He pulled Chaoseater through his own chest, ignoring the pain blossoming through him like wildfire to watch his dear youngest brother return from the dead.    
  
War tried to fight the tugging on him, wanted to wander further and get to that well he could see in front of him.   
Yet something was pulling him back harshly enough to finally rip him off of his feet.   
The first thing he felt was pain. His chest ached and his head felt as if it was ready to burst.   
  
And then, he cracked his eyes open, breathing in deeply, regardless of the wound in his chest.   
  
His eyes fell onto the figure looming over him. “B-brother...," he brought out, voice silent and broken, “You... why did you do that? You should have... I’m... not worthy.. I failed you. I couldn’t defend it, they have the blood...”   
He tried to sit up but fell back again with a pained moan.

 

Death felt not the sweet relief he’d hoped for, but more heavy guilt crashing over him. He almost wished Chaoseater would slice him in half, it would feel less terrible than facing War right now. He heaved himself off of his brother and off of his sword, still kneeling by War and thankful for his mask.

 

“You didn’t fail me, War. They don’t have the blood. It’s gone, taken care of.”   
  
War scowled. “What? How? I thought....”   
then relief washed over him and he closed his eyes for just a second. Apparently that gave him enough power to get himself into a standing position. Only for a few moments though, then he tumbled and toppled over. Ruin whickered worriedly and then shot Death a glare.   
  
It was hard enough to keep lying to War without a sign of guilt, the horse’s apparent knowledge not helping whatsoever. Death caught his brother’s shoulders, kept him upright. He resisted the urge to cradle him close. He didn’t deserve to be glad about this return, for he was the one who sent War to his death. Knowingly. 

 

“I got it from them, just in time and took it to the Keeper...I’m sorry I was not...fast enough to spare you the trip...”

  
Liar. Rotten, ancient, foul liar. How could he do this to War of all his brothers? Death felt it tear at his insides, heart aching to confess the truth. And yet, his tongue lashed him tightly to being a coward. He would not feel his brother’s spite.   
  
At least War looked relieved. With the help of his brother, he managed to get into Ruin’s saddle, the steed more than careful, standing as still as a rock to make it more easy for War to find his balance.   
  
“So... how about we leave this place?”   
  



	5. We will Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is very brief but I didn't want to extend the chapter beyond the scene

The battle for the Abomination Vault and its terrible secrets was won, it was by far not an honorary victory, as Azrael and War both pointed out. Such young fools. They did not yet understand that only victors could grumble about the involvement of honor is such a dirty deed as murder and slaughter for the sake of Creation. Honour indeed. Death might have had it once, a long time ago, but with every sin on his hand, every burden on his shoulder, honour was the first to break beneath the weight.

 

The angel of ‘death’ had departed, back to his guardian post at the well and in his beloved library. Good. Azrael was ill suited to battle and blood. Unlike the one who lingered in Death’s sparse home.

 

“Are you that eager to help me clean up, brother?” Death offered, knowing there was a conversation he was deftly avoiding.   
  
“Definitely not. That is your duty.”   
War still lingered, sitting on what his brother used as a bed and obviously avoiding the older’s eyes.

  
Silence occurred between them, nothing unusual.   
This time though, it was an uncomfortable silence and that definitely was odd.   
Before Death could say anything, War got up, walked straight past his brother and to one of his boney cupboards where he reached for a bottle and a glass, poured himself a whole lot of the steaming fluid out of the bottle and emptied the glass in one go.   
  
War didn’t seem to care that the amount he had just downed could possibly make even hordes of demons completely drunk not to speak of angels.   
Drunken angels were a funny thing though, they tended to get really... open about things, some even downright perverted.   
But that was not the point here.   
War swiped his lips with the back of his hand.   
Obviously, the point was, War tried to steel himself for what he was planning. Really, it were just a few words, but the task felt gargantuan to him.   
He turned around, finally facing his brother who wore no small expression of wonder.   
  
“Brother," War began, voice even rougher and more husky than usual, possibly because of the abomination of a drink he had just had.   
“There’s something on my mind I need to speak to you about," a pause, “Ever since I died, I... could not escape the urge to tell you that...” 

His brother’s orange eyes were questioning now and War resisted the urge to duck away.

  
“In my dreams..." he began and had the decency to flush slightly with only the faintest hint of red creeping onto his cheeks, “In my dreams you... we’re... we’re different. To each other. We, uhm," alright now stuttering definitely _ was _ embarrassing, “We never said it. Never talked about it and yet we both know we, uh, would never give our hearts to someone else than the other.”

  
More silence, then War continued, “You have always been the... most important for me, I would never find someone more fitting for this, I... want to humbly offer you my heart.”

 

Death’s eyes seemed to flicker and dart around behind the darkness of his mask. The eldest Horseman was shocked, of that there was no doubt. He stood frozen by War’s words as reality spun vicious circles around him, taunted at him and once again delivered him into an impossible situation.

 

Never had the Nephilim taken matters of the heart seriously. Angels, humans, makers, even demons fell in love, but never had the Horsemen or their kin boasted such a thing. They were made for blood and battle, not tender affection. Death had allowed War to live out his fantasy with him, but it was a matter of his bodily need, not his heart’s desire.

 

Which he was implying, right now. War, his youngest, most foolish brother, was offering him his heart, trusting and naive as not even a child would do. Blindly believing Death to be worthy of such a thing.

 

The elder came back to life, shifted himself from where he stood and considered an equally abominable drink. He certainly needed it.

 

As much as he would like nothing more than to put War at ease, to allow him every whim and thing to make his life brighter, this was nothing he could do. War wanted his heart, but Death had forsaken that a long time ago. Even before he became a kinslayer.

 

And he had done so once more, very recently. War had to know. This cowardice was no way of living.

 

“It’s ill timing for such things, brother,” he began, missing his usual sarcasm, “for I too have need of confession. You never did hear the details of how I kept the ravaiim blood from Hadrimon’s forces,” the Horseman faced his sibling squarely and continued before War could interrupt.

 

“You never had the blood. It was a triple feint. I had the true vessel and brought it to the Keeper the moment you departed.”   
  
Now it was War’s turn to turn absolutely still, staring at his brother with a shocked expression. His grim expression and what little, infantile hope had been in his eyes vanished and made room for realization.   
  
It didn’t take him long to grasp the concept of what Death had just confessed, but it took him a while to accept it.   
  
War had suffered through many injuries, the shot from Black Mercy possibly being the cruelest of them all. But they had at least either felt like they were healing in time, and in the Abomination’s case, they had offered him death.   
But this?   
It wasn’t only that his brother couldn’t answer his question, no, he had done something far worse.   
  
And even though War understood the concept because he himself knew he was a bad liar and he understood the necessity, he felt utterly, horribly betrayed.   
  
His brother had sacrificed him without even so much as telling him.   
There would have been no good-bye, nothing. War could never have told him and the confession would have nagged on his soul forever.   
  
It was then when War realized he had been gaping at his brother. Now, his features hardened once more, but in a different way than before. Betrayal and pain burned in his eyes and he was clenching his teeth hard enough to let the muscles protrude.   
  
“I understand," he answered, “You had to do it. There was no other option.”   
  
He said those words, but there was no forgiveness in his voice, it was only distant and cold.   
  
“I will take my leave, Death.”   
War nodded lightly at his brother and left the house the older nephilim had built.   
  
Ruin waited outside and greeted him with a snort, but as soon as the steed noticed in what mood his rider was, he went rigid, stomping a hoof, all muscles tense. He bolted as soon as War was on his back.   
Behind him, Despair gave a little whinny.

 


	6. God of War

It was never supposed to end like this. The wanton destruction was worse than Death ever imagined and he had seen battles that ended entire worlds.

 

Still, the annihilation of the third kingdom was a horrendous sight to behold and Death tread lightly on this silent world. Demons fought for scores of devastated land, the bodies of those who once lived as men their slaves even in death.

 

“What have you done, War?” Death muttered to his crow companion, letting Despair follow his own path through the chaos. There was no way his beloved little brother could be held responsible for all of this. Even in his bloodlust, he was far from genocidal.

  
  


War tried to ignore the destruction around him as he walked along one of the bigger streets. Here and there laid the lifeless bodies of the undead. They didn’t even dare awaken in his presence anymore, a good sign that his powers were slowly returning to him. Thanks to Samael, maybe, though he would never confess it.   
  
The seven pieces of the Armageddon Sword he had to find and he had six now. One was here in the Third Realm and War had avoided going there as long as possible.   
  
While he was still musing, following the pieces’ call for their sibling, sudden pain infiltrated his head and if he hadn’t been cringing with pain, he would have rolled his eyes. That damn watchdog liked to get on his nerves, continuously.

 

“You are wasting time,” the watcher appeared in a swirl of black mist, emerald eyes filled with malice as he tightened the proverbial leash the Council granted him over the Horseman. How good it felt to have the mighty Nephilim grind his teeth at the flick of one of his long, black fingers.

 

“It is as though you’re feeling guilty. Look around. This whole world is dead and it is all your doing. Doesn’t that warrant a little more than a slap on the wrist, War?”

 

The creature flicked his iron-bound wrist and War was on his knees, still refusing to utter a sound of pain.

“Your life should be paid in penance for your sins, Horseman.”   
  
War despised how easily the creature could force him on his knees, how weak the Council had made him. Still, he refused to give a sound.   
But the Watcher seemed to be set on torturing him long enough to make him vocalize his pain.   
War grabbed his head with both mechanic and good hand and curled up on the broken street, desperately trying to fight down the pain that was creeping through him like hellfire.   
  
He didn’t even notice he was screaming by now and the Watcher’s malicious eyes were glinting with pleasure as he had the great Horseman kneel before him, writhing in agony. 

 

Dust rose from Death’s shoulder as Despair let out a wailing neigh. Something was up ahead, past the burned wrecks of cars and twisted mass of limbs on the bridge. The eldest Horseman made out a sound, a scream, deep and throaty and not of this world.

 

He didn’t have to urge his mount forward, Despair plodding into a brisk gallop of his own accord.

 

The first thing he saw was the sleek, haggard form of one of Panoptos ‘children’, the vile little slave race subservient to the Council’s will. 

 

And there, beyond the shadowy creature, a cloak of crimson and glinting armour and the scream of his youngest brother. The sound pierced Death’s heart and Harvester was drawn instantly. With a leap from Despair’s back, Death was paces away from his brother, the curve of his blade resting at the Watcher’s neck.

 

“If you want to keep that freakish head of yours, you will release him.” 

 

The Watcher wheeled but stopped short as he noticed how perilously close he was to severing his own head.   
  
When the pain subsided, War coughed and waited until his senses returned to him. His hearing came back faster than his eyesight.   
And what he heard, that voice.... He raised his head, still blind, unable to see his brother, but he was there and War had never been more glad about it.   
“Brother," he brought out, a croaky noise that sounded all too dependent.   
  
He tried to get up, struggled and then the Watcher forced him down once more before he ducked under Death’s blade and disappeared into the younger Nephilim’s mechanic arm.   
  
“Why... how.. why are you here?”   
He was able to tell light from dark by now, but had no idea how long it would take this time and he was glad Death was there.

 

Death stood before him now, Harvester resting in the ground as Death pulled his brother to his feet and watched him closely. He looked much, much weaker than the War he knew and held so dear. What had the Council inflicted upon him, what cruel punishment for his, as Death was convinced, innocent soul? 

 

“I am here to retrieve the staff or Arafel...never did I think you would return to this place,” Death’s hand lingered on War’s shoulder, refusing to let his brother go in such a time of need. He could feel the pain haunting War’s body and mind and he broke with it. Fury rose in him, and stark defiance. He would make the Council pay for the error in their judgement.

 

“I set out to...clear your name. I know you are innocent of this, you could not have meant for the end of this world.”   
  
Even though he still couldn’t see, he blindly reached out for his brother’s head and brought their foreheads together in a scene that was perhaps more intimate than the one time they had shared a bed.   
“You’re the first one to believe me,” War’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. He had not seen his brother for decades and here he realized how much he had missed him, that the gaping hole in his chest that had only partially healed wasn’t the betrayal he still felt but the loss of his dear brother.   
  
Yes, Death had betrayed him, but right now, he brightened his brother’s life so much he could almost forget about it.   
  
“I am.. on my way to find the seventh and last piece of the Armageddon Blade. I need to slay the Destroyer for he is the one truly responsible for this...”

 

Death allowed his brother the intimacy, denying how much he appreciated the gesture of faith himself. He’d missed his little brother terribly and it was truly a shame how little he could confess to that. He’d wronged War. Yes, it had been for the sake of Creation, but it didn’t lessen the burden on the Firstborn by any amount.

 

“The Destroyer? Are you quite certain? That would mean the Council judged with corrupt minds...this means war on a scale we have not yet lived through,” his hand joined the other on War’s shoulder, offering him silent support and the never ending freedom of any doubts. Death trusted in War’s honour, in his integrity and even his savage nature. He was not a liar.

 

“You mean to wage war on Hell, Heaven and the Council?”   
  
“Brother, I have been in Eden. The Tree... spoke to me, it showed me pictures of...," no, he couldn’t tell Death the whole truth, the Watcher was still present, listening to every word, “who the Destroyer is. What turned him.”   
He paused, then looked up, now he could finally make out his brother’s face or rather, the mask, and see his orange glinting eyes, “It is Abaddon. Abaddon is the Destroyer. And I have to fight him. I am not trying to redeem my name, but I will punish those responsible for this trap.”

 

“Abaddon?” Death questioned, though he did not doubt the truth of War’s words. That the youngest Nephilim had been in Eden, that kingdom that cost their race their lives, came as a surprise. War was on the path of something that would shatter Creation and for a change, Death did not know what he should do. His youngest brother, his dearest sibling and the only being who ever laid claim to his heart, would end Creation if it meant undoing what had been done to wrong him.

 

And Death respected the monumental strength such an endeavour took. 

 

“You would end Creation for your vengeance, brother?” it wasn’t truly a question, for Death already knew the answer, “as always, you are...foolish at best. An honourable fool. And what of this vermin, chained to your arm? Serving the Council’s will, is it?”   
  
War didn’t have to answer that question, and he knew from the beginning he didn’t need to. His brother would understand nevertheless.   
  
“Is it soothing you I haven’t changed?" War tried the tiniest hint of a joke, then looked at his arm, face falling into a scowl, “Yes. They found it important to survey my every footstep. I am unable to even rest without it present. Though it doesn’t seem to dare showing its face again in your presence.”

 

“I’m not surprised. The Council has never dared to put a leash on me,” Death didn’t have to explain why. As the supposed leader of the Horsemen, he stood above and beyond such regulation. War was but a petulant child in the Council’s eyes, but his brother was a Horseman of a different colour.

 

“If it shows its vile intent once more, I will cut its head off,” he addressed the thing hiding in War’s artificial arm, could hear it hissing and scowling at his threat, “no one may lay hands on my brother.”

  
Despair chose to join them that moment, giving War a sympathetic nuzzle and then butting his shoulder, as if reaffirming his rider’s words and ensuring their support.   
  
War’s lips stretched into a small smile as he grabbed the ghostly horse’s head and butted his head in a similar way against the steed’s head.   
“Both of your support is appreciated," he muttered, then turned slightly, “I have to find the last piece to finally slay the destroyer and end this corrupt world.”   



	7. Dancing with the Beast

War had always loved taking off creatures’ wings. Fury always joked about it, but it was a rumour that went through both Heaven and Hell that the youngest Horsemen held a grudge against angels because he had been mistaken for one so often.   
War himself had never given it much thought. He just knew that hearing bones snap and flesh tear and feathers all around him satisfied him in many ways.   
  
Especially this time.   
Abaddon seemed to have accepted his fate and War certainly made no ritual out of taking his life.   
Then again, he might have posed a little before piercing the Armageddon Blade through his heart, but that was only because his brother was watching.

 

Death was not known to enjoy watching slaughter, but in Abaddon’s case, it was a true contest of strength. And War did splendidly, from the moment he faced the cruel beast in guise of a dragon. The Destroyer’s power was terrible to behold and yet, War forced the lost angel back into his true form. Never had Death seen such corrupted feathers, a gaze as hateful as Abaddon’s. The true motive of why the Archangel had fallen to such a fate was not decisive for his fate, only his actions. And tricking War into riding when the seal was not broken warranted his death.

 

Uriel spoke her last words to her former lover, right before the Armageddon blade buried itself into the angel’s chest. It was done. The Destroyer, slain by the youngest Horseman and War’s vengeance fulfilled.

 

An ugly laugh sounded and the blue and black magics of War’s unwanted companion trapped him tightly, forced him down to the ground once more. The vile creature swirled around him, oblivious to Death’s presence on the edge of the battlefield and ignoring the golden-feathered angel.

 

“You had to know it was a one way ticket,” he hissed, close to War’s ear as his fingers splayed over the Horseman’s head, “the Council knew you’d never play executioner because of your precious honour,” he mocked him openly, then curled his digits around the sigil on the ground. The seventh seal, four embossed horses, the last barrier before the true Apocalypse.

 

“They let you take the fall...They knew you’d butcher everyone involved to clear your name. And you did.”

 

Another horrendous chuckle and War was forced to the ground.

 

“You had freedom in the palm of your hand, and you lost it. Tragic, really.”

  
War, on the ground once again, chuckled, then broke out in laughter.   
“You seem to forget about one thing," he brought out, the Watcher’s magic still keeping him on the ground, but the being was obviously oblivious to death looming behind him. Literally Death, because the oldest horseman’s hand enclosed around the sigil, “I’m not alone.”

 

The Watcher’s six eyes widened and he whirled, but it was too late. Death’s hand enclosed around the sigil, the other around the Watcher’s neck. The creature flailed, realizing its fatal error in not checking for Death’s presence.

 

“No, you can’t! The Council will punish you! I am protected!”

 

“I warned you once before,” Death’s grip was choking the creature, but he did not let it suffer too long, instead sending it crashing into a pile against the nearest boulder. The Watcher tried its best to get upright once more, but Death loomed over it, ready to honour his name.

 

“Any harm inflicted on War, I will pay back sevenfold. No matter on whom.” 

 

The Watcher squealed in outrage and pain as Death ripped off the first wing, a likely homage to War’s favoured method of shredding enemies.

 

“You will suffer,” another wing and the damn thing’s right arm, “your soul will find no peace. I guarantee you that.” Death lifted the bleeding Watcher up by the top of his head and fiery orange blazed behind his mask. “And as you die, you can inform the Council of this. They shall have their war. And we will not wage it alone.”

 

The sigil broke at the same time Death’s hand crushed the Watcher’s skull.   
  
War pulled the Armageddon Blade from the sigil his brother had thrown over to him. As he stepped forward to meet his brother at the edge of the floating ground they had turned into an arena, the two of them witnessed two flaming meteors falling from the sky, meteors that were none and had both Nephilim smile slightly in recognition.   
  
“Brother...," War’s voice was silent, but very soft and careful, as if he was walking on uncertain terrain with it, “Even though you helped me along this way, I want you to know you... did not have to do it for the sake of my forgiveness. I already forgave you.”

 

As they watched Fury and Strife descend towards the ground, War’s words rung heavy in Death’s head and heart. Though they stood at the precipice of the apocalypse, there was warmth and familiarity running through his body and he made a decision that had been brewing for a long while. He reached up to the mask he had worn since the day he slaughtered his fellow Nephilim, the symbol of his being changing to nothing but an executioner at the Council’s will. Now, that purpose was stricken from the world and so was Death’s obligation to bear it at all times.

 

His face had not felt the wind and light for a long, long time. So much so his skin was pale white where the mask had covered him.

 

He turned to War then, hand shooting out for his brother’s hair. He tugged the fistful of silver until War was but a scant few inches from his face.

 

“I owe you another confession, War.”

 

But no words left his mouth, and War too would be hard-pressed to question him further, because Death crushed them together in a harsh kiss.   
  
Even War, who saw himself and was seen by the rest of creation as the closest being to Death, had not seen his face in thousands of years. And though he had never truly forgotten, but the memory had faded.   
The youngest brother stared at him, unable to fight against his brother pulling him into that harsh kiss.   
War had never been kissed. He had seen it though, he had seen almost everything, angels, demons, humans, even makers and their own siblings, but...    
Being kissed by Death, the one he had desired for so long, the one his heart laid open for for years now, stunned him to a point where he let his brother lead the interaction, he was merely responding slowly.

  
When the older made a move to pull back though, War finally snapped out of it. Strong arms wrapped around his brother’s form, pulled him tightly against him, their armour mostly being in the way.   
Still, War kept him close and finally returned the sentiment thoroughly.

 

He didn’t plan on bestowing a kiss upon his brother, and yet he was far from pulling away. War tasted like blood and battle, like iron and cinders and it was quite glorious. It took a long while before his brother seemed to understand the silent message, that Death was embracing his offered heart and in turn, would give what remained of his to War.

 

The armour clanged as it met and yet the Horsemen could not be parted. The only witness to this display was Uriel, but she too had nothing to say, no objection to make. Perhaps she was too shocked by the scene of two Horsemen, ancient and powerful, succumbing to such a forbidden pleasure.

  
War certainly didn’t care about Uriel’s presence as his good hand wandered into his brother’s dark hair, drawing him even closer, turning the kiss more passionate.   
  
At some point though they both seemed to realize where they were and what just had occurred, but still, for that being the case, they parted from each other quite slowly.   
  
No words needed to be exchanged, nothing. They just looked at each other silently and knew what kind of promise they had just given each other.   
  
And as if they had just heard the call, both simultaneously stepped away from each other, drawing their blades.


End file.
